


Five Months Grounded

by CMHolden



Series: Riftdale - Line One [11]
Category: Benjaminutes - Fandom, The Riftdale Chronicles (Web Series)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2020-05-30 23:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19414129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CMHolden/pseuds/CMHolden
Summary: Just a general TW right now. This fic contains descriptions of distress and general fear. I don't think my writing's good to set off PTSD, but just to be sure, I figured I should put this disclaimer





	1. Christian

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vampworm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampworm/gifts).



> If this chapter seems familiar is because it was Chapter 6 in One Last Miracle. This is what happens after Christian disappears.

Christian sat next to the barrel fire, warming his hands. He wore clothes he had stolen from a body he had found. He likely died of an overdose, going by the contents of his pockets. Christian sniffed softly, rubbing his hands together. Months of effort, up in smoke. His contact to the Eye didn’t respond. He had no way of getting to them. Thousands and thousands of dollars, funding who knows what. He only needed one more hit. Another couple of grand. He would have been in the clear. He rested his head into his knees. He had no back up plan. No where to go. Bart wouldn’t want anything to do with him, Clairevoyance had less stable living than he did.

A warm hand rested on Christian’s shoulder. He grabbed it, twisting it to pull the person down, pressing their face into the hot metal.

“Hey, kiddo, that’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

“Dad?” Christian let him go, Dad sitting next to him. He rubbed his cheek as if Christian had lightly slapped him instead of branding him with a barrel.

“You’re looking worse for wear kiddo…” Dad said softly. He held Christian to his side.

“I tried… so hard… and I still… Still failed,” he sniffed, holding his legs.

“…I honestly thought you would take the young man’s offer Christian…”

“I don’t want reformation I want to for-” Christian paused, “You… you know what happened?”

“…’Fraid so kiddo.”  
“…Why didn’t you stop me?” he scowled at him, “I wasn’t supposed to kill again… Everything is ruined… because of this.”

“…I didn’t think you’d shoot him.”

“I wasn’t going to… I fucked up… I just wanted him to leave.” He rested his head on Dad’s shoulder. It wasn’t as soft as it usually was. He was more ridged.

“…Dad?”

“I’m sorry kiddo… I didn’t want to have to do this.”

“Wai-what? Do what? Dad?!”

“That boy’s friend… called out to your mother and I…”

“Dad…pl-please….”

“I ignored him but… your mother didn’t. She answered him.”

“Dad…” Christian sniffed, his lip trembling.

“I have to protect my kiddos, son. I made a deal with her…”

“Please… I’m sorry.”

“I’m so sorry, kiddo. You’re grounded.” Christian clung to Dad’s shirt before disappearing with a soft pop. Dad sighed, disappearing into a reality away from his kids. A reality where his depression wouldn’t end them.


	2. Grounded

Awaking on the floor, Christian was immediately aware that something wasn’t right. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even blink. He could barely move his eyes from the ceiling. Above him, there were a series of cupboards above some sort of bench. All of them were in pastel colours. He felt something smack his leg and heard the clatter of trays as something tumbled over him.

“Ouch! What the dash was that?”

A voice that struck the coldest, unholiest fear into Christian’s chest. The voice of evil incarnate. The sweet venomous sing-song that sent death itself running for the hills in fear.

Mom.

Christian strained against the invisible weight that was holding him down, desperate to try and escape, but it was no use. He was completely and utterly stuck to the ground.

“Christian? Did your father send you?” Mom asked him as she got up, rubbing her knees. She was wearing a pair of high waisted jean shorts, a pale purple apron and a short, frilly sleeved shirt. “I guess he’s finally accepted the fact you must be punished. Of course, the coward couldn’t do it himself…”

She sighed bitterly to herself. Christian silently begged his body to move, to run. Even if he could, where would he go? He was chained in the lioness’ den with no way to know which way was out.

Mom bent down to pick up the trays and place them delicately on the bench. She washed her hands carefully with a rose-scented soap and used her reflection in the tap to fix her hair before returning to Christian.

“So, I believe someone needs a time ou-” she coughed slightly, clearing her throat. “Time ou-. Tiii-… Tiiiihme hoooou-”

She coughed violently, yet politely into her arm. Christian took this momentary distraction to attempt to wiggle away, but alas nothing happened.

A piece of paper warped in, fluttering down on Christian’s face. Mom carefully picked it up, careful not to scratch Christian with her nails. The writing was formal and almost too uniform to be handwritten, yet it was clearly written with a pen. It was difficult to read the deep green ink, as it was backwards to Christian. Whatever it said, it pissed Mom off royally.

“Oh, he thinks he’s being _clever_. He thinks he’s being _smart_. How dare he!? Tying my hands like this, how _dare he?!_ ”

She angrily put the letter on the fridge with a magnet before storming down the hall. Straining, Christian began to slowly read.

“To the mother of Christian Lee Proist,

It has come to the attention of the PTA that your son is hearby within formal punishment. His father has supplied his list of charges.

Therefore, no further punishment may be applied for the child in question for any misgivings represented in his charges as attached.

They may, however, receive punishment for any further misgivings.

We wish you luck in your attempts at reforming your child.

Sincerely,

The Parental Training Authority.”

Christian sighed. As long as he didn’t break any more rules, he wouldn’t be put in time out. And seeing as he couldn't move... there was no way he could break any more rules. Looking at the ceiling, he thought to himself. Where were the lists of his charges?

A roll of parchment fell on his face, continuing to unravel through the warp and cover Christian’s face.

Ah.

There they are. Very thorough.


	3. 10 Minutes

Being grounded wasn’t so bad so far. Lying on the floor sucked, but at least the floor wasn’t razor blades. Christian started counting the tiles on the ceiling.

Yep.

There were a lot of tiles on that roof.

Clean tiles too. Sparkling white against the pastel rose paint of the walls. Now that Christian knew he couldn’t be sent to time out, he could really have a look around.

Or look as at much as he could without turning his head.

The countertops where a soft mint and the cupboard doors were lilac with small pink flowers painted around the frame. The fridge looked as if it was straight from the 1950s in a pastel blue, with a matching yellow oven. The microwave was hidden in the corner behind a series of flowering house plants, evidentially an object of disgrace. The kettle sat next to the coffee machine, which was next to a juicer, which was next to a bread bin. Each was perfectly parallel to the counter’s edge, glimmeringly clean. Christian could just make out a curtain covering the cupboard above his head. Even the back of the curtain, the place that always got dirty first, was a clean white. It was almost as if everything was bought for a movie set and had never been used.

The smell, however, disputed the idea. The scent of freshly baked cookies wafted through Christian’s nostrils like cocaine on a Friday. Or Tuesday. Or any other day ending with Y.

There was also the scent of fresh herbs, dried spices and flowers. Despite everything being immaculately clean, there was no scent of chemical cleaners. Everything smelled of warmth and of his childhood home.

Wait, no it didn’t. Christian’s mother always used the cheap disinfectants that smelled strongly of fake lemon. She’d wipe the cupboards out once a month, maybe. The countertops were always covered in whatever she was cooking. The microwave was heavily used on weeknights, and she rarely baked. She would make dinners in the oven on Sundays, usually roast. The rest of the week was food from a starter kit or made in the slow cooker. Almost nothing was made fresh, yet it still filled the hole of hunger.

Even though nothing here matched what he grew up with, Christian still had the sensation of being home again. It was a feeling he hadn’t felt since…

Mom’s feet stepped around Christian’s head as she cleaned the mess only her eyes could see from the floor, before loading and unloading the dishwasher. She turned to Christian with a hand on her hip.

“… Of course, he’d place you in the middle of my kitchen. He could have just agreed to the terms and let me pick you up on my way through, _but no_. So now I have to either move you or move around you.”

She let out a huff, pursing her lips and re-reading over the list of Christian’s charges. Not only was it taller than her, it was also still mostly rolled up. Surely there couldn’t have been that much?

Wait, unless each death was its own listing and not a grouped issue like on the news.

Mom carefully rolled the parchment up, placing it back on the counter. She rolled her sleeves up and held her hands over Christian’s body. Slowly, he felt his body lift from the ground. Mom took a careful few steps, moving her hands as if she had tiny strings attached to them that were holding Christian up. After carefully moving him out of the kitchen and around the breakfast bar (only smacking is feet against two barstools), Mom took Christian down the hall. Once again, immaculate. There were dozens of constantly changing images of her kids, a hallway table with neatly organised mail and another vase of flowers and a photo of… wait…

Christian tried to turn his head to look at the picture, but Mom had already led him into another room. Once again, everything looking fresh out of a magazine. Christian looked around. It was like he was in his childhood bedroom. There were posters on the wall of various sporting groups, a few band posters and a corkboard with various birthday cards. His bed was shaped like a boat, with oars for handles on the drawers under the bed. In the corner was a couch next to a desk. The shelf above the desk was full of study guides and homework books. The carpet was a pale cream and the walls painted a soft blue.

Mom laid Christian on his bed. It was soft and inviting. If Christian was able to close his eyes, he would have.

“Right, well. I’ll bring your dinner in an hour.”

She left without another word.

A bed? Food? Warmth?

So far, this didn’t feel like a punishment.


End file.
